


Of Silwë, the Jewel-smith

by silwe



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings Online, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:08:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21507892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silwe/pseuds/silwe
Summary: Vignettes and memories, dreamlike or vivid, recalling events which shaped the path of a Ñoldorin jewel-smith and military tactician, teacher, father, rune-keeper, and diplomat: Silwë of Valinor, later known as Hîr Illuvarion Silwe Mírdan, Last of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

Silwë loved the stars, and that is how he was named; for that name means Star-light in the language of the Noldor, Quenya. In the days before the Sun and the Moon, the Noldor had been second to follow the path of the Vala Oromë upon the Great Journey from the East, through the darkened Greenwood and over the mountains, and across the great sea to Aman, the Undying Lands. This is where Silwë dwelt, near Tirion-upon-Túna, with the Noldor, his people, under the light of the Two Trees.

He was tall and slight, fair-skinned with raven-dark hair that fell long and straight, and he adorned it with the trappings of his craft: beads, cut gems, circlets and chain, small bells and carven hair-sticks. Though he had no particular talent at song and dance, like many of the Eldar did, he enjoyed fine clothing and wine and Miruvórë - he had no dislike for parties, though he ever seemed lost in thought, despite his erudite way of speaking and love of occasional dry humor. He was vain, in some ways, though he did not find himself remarkably beautiful; he simply loved formality and things pleasing to the eye.

Silwë was a jewel-smith, of no insubstantial talent, and he spent his days in Valinor studying at the forge and bench of the Vala Aulë, the Smith, learning the arts and lore of metal and jewels. From him, and his kinsmen, Silwë learned too the deep, esoteric ways in which the Noldor worked their craft, creating singular items deemed enchanted by many who saw them. He was skilled at this, and that which later, in Beleriand, was deemed sorcery, or perhaps the control of emotion and manifestations, and of visions.

He dwelt in a small home outside near a brook, which overlooked at some distance the Sea, where he had a workshop and a forge of his own, and would spend his time at either for hours at a time, sometimes days. He did not take a wife, nor did he have family; but he was happy, and his neighbors thought him pleasant, and he often sat upon the grassy bank of the creek in the company of a large, orange cat whom he called Airwë (which, in Quenya, meant _Orange_ ). From time to time, he - like many of the Noldor, in those happier days - enjoyed the company of the Falmari of Tol Eressea, with whom he would trade Noldorin jewels for pearls, decline the invitations of the Sea-elves to swim in the deep ocean, and then spend nights stargazing over the water, listening to the lilting Falmarin music that made him think of shimmering foam and the cries of birds.

And so it was for many years, happy at his work and his learning, with his cat and his anvil and his forge, his jewelry, fine robes and his carven hair-sticks. The Noldor had not yet learned fear.

But Melkor came, in friendship, or so he said. He poisoned the minds of the Noldor, ever so slightly, and they grew suspicious of the Valar and of those who were not their kin; the Noldor learnt the craft of fine weapons and armour, though they knew not yet what for. The Noldorin prince Fëanáro, son of Finwë, King of the Noldor, eventually grew paranoid and violent, and was exiled for a time, when he drew his sword upon his half-brother, Fingolfin. The Noldor were restless, and suspicious. It felt as though something was coming.

Then, at last, Melkor brought to Valinor Ungoliant, and destroyed the Trees, and all was dark. He murdered Finwë and stole Fëanor’s jealously-guarded treasures, the three Silmarils, and fled to Beleriand. Fëanor, in rage, defied the Valar, and raised many of his people to follow him to Beleriand in revenge, to win back the jewels. Silwë, as many Noldor, felt that by this act his people had been wronged, and took up arms and armour to follow Fëanáro, now King, to war against the disgraced Vala Melkor, whom Fëanáro cursed to evermore be known as Morgoth.

Silwë adjusted the armour he had crafted, not used to being dressed in this way. He was a craftsman, not a soldier; but then, none of the Noldor were soldiers. Not yet. As a smith and a jeweler, he was unable to resist a bit of purely decorative flourish, and the graceful but very functional breastplate was set at the chest with the eight-pointed, eight-rayed star that was the symbol of the House of Fëanáro and adopted by the Noldor who would follow him. He slipped his crimson cloak around his shoulders, and locked the door to his workshop.

A languid meow came from the grass by the footpath, and a big, handsome orange cat strolled out of the reeds. He stopped and regarded Silwë in the way only cats seem to be able. He knew something was afoot.

“Airwë, do not look at me that way. I will return soon.”

He picked the beast up and nuzzled his face into the soft, sun-warmed fur. Airwë began licking his master’s hair, and then his face. Setting the orange bundle down, Silwë knelt and offered his hand. The cat gave it several licks, and then rubbed his body against it; blinking his large green eyes, he looked up at the elf expectantly.

“I will be home soon,” Silwë said, giving his beloved pet one last scratch behind the ear. “I promise. You know how to care for yourself."

The cat rolled over in the dirt, and fell asleep with his stomach in the air, as Silwë walked down a path to a road, and down the road to the beach. He stopped there a while, and picked up a stone. It was small, no larger than the size of his thumb-nail, but it was smooth and even-colored, a shimmering white common to the shores of the Undying Lands. He slipped it into his pocket. For luck, he thought.

He walked on, toward the Swan-Haven, to an uncertain future.


	2. Chapter 2

_From the journal of Silwë_   
_(Date smeared illegibly), First Age_

> Panting slightly and stained with blood, I watched the harbor of Alqualondë burn, the piers and the white buildings which in friendship the Ñoldor had built side-and-side with the Sea-elves.

A line of darker ink cuts across the page, and the margin notes it with the date "Second Age, 2301". The following is written on the facing page, in Silwë's recognizable handwriting, but in better ink, and with more maturity to the precise Tengwar he uses:

> _**Of the Falmari (note for clarification, added SA2301):** Allies, we had been, I spoke their tongue and sang songs with them at the shore in our bliss, in the early days, beneath the light of the Two Trees and the shimmering Stars that hung above the shadowy. glassy ocean. We had eaten together countless times, and though I knew not how to swim, I had visited Tol Eressea by way of a small raft, bringing jewels to scatter in the tide-pools, and wearing garlands of seaweed and pearls in my long, inky hair. The slain were our friends. Our kin - and we had believed they would help us, in our desperation. _

The original entry continues below the line:

> Yes, we Ñoldor sought aid, but were betrayed, and the Teleri refused us their fine Swan-ships to bear the Ñoldor to war with Morgoth in Beleriand. How many had fallen at my hands, then? Dozens? Who then was left to sate my need for violence? I coldly surveyed the empty streets, populated only by lifeless forms and wreckage. The destruction was near total.
> 
> “Aiya,” I heard a voice call. “Silwë! We depart, join us! Victory is ours, brother! We sail for Beleriand, and vengeance!”
> 
> I cannot sail, though others knew how, and I sat upon the deck of this marvelous vessel as the sails filled above me. It cut the water, eastward, like a knife through silk; silent, until the anger of Ulmo's Maiar roiled the waters and made the crossing hellish for those of us who did not drown. I did not look back. In the mirrored steel of my gauntlet, I saw myself – bloodstained. At the time, my vanity spoke to me, and I was thrilled.
> 
> “Let the ships burn.” commanded Fëanáro, once our host had gathered at Losgar.
> 
> We would not return to the aid of Nolofinwë's folk, though friends and family were among the Ñoldor left behind. This betrayal seemed nothing to me then; we had won this passage ourselves. The Telerin Swan-boats were set ablaze. We did not realize that with them perished the youngest of Fëanor’s sons. He had been forgotten. A shadow fell that night upon us, but we set upon our course. It could not be helped.
> 
> The years to follow were a haze of blood and loss and victory. By my sword a great many foes were slain. Victories. Defeats. I felt nothing for them, nor for myself; I was consumed by a deep, burning rage I barely understood. I felt betrayed, by the Valar themselves, by the world, by the over-brightness of the Sunrise each day, and by the way the silver light of the new Moon made faint the stars I once loved so. I was drowned in my grief for my people, and still I feel it deep within.
> 
> Though I do not have the stature of a warrior – I am slight of build but resilient, and strong by virtue of the innate strength of my kind and of a life spent working with metal and stone, before the forges – I rose to lead a company of my kinsmen. Warlord, I was called. A Commander. Despite all, my thirst for violence was matched only by my vanity and pride; I knew little pleasure but that of bloodshed and pain. I was remorseless, as well; both at Alqualondë and in the years to follow. By my best friend, my blood-brother, I was after-named Silwë Rúsënaro; Silwë the Wrathful, for I knew no fear nor pity, only rage.
> 
> He too seems a distant ghost of the self I once was, as surely as he who was left behind in the Undying Lands - shades, wraiths - but still I am he, though haunted I feel as though he too is to disappear... but by Aulë's own hammer, my fëa burns still with that anger and I live again. And that will drive me, I hope, and I will do what must be done. Will peace come? And if it comes, what then? I know not.


	3. Chapter 3

It was dark, and the world lit only by fire and stars, as the Dagor-nuin-Giliath was fought. Under the stars, it was called in the future. Ten days the battle raged, of Fëanor and his Noldorin host against the forces of Morgoth in the Mountains of Shadow. Outnumbered and greatly surrounded, somehow, the Noldor were victorious. Fëanáro, King of the Ñoldor fell in battle, and so it was that the dawning of the First Day was upon the sorrow and triumph of a people displaced, enraged, and yet triumphant; Nolofinwë, the Second Son of Finwë, and his host drew close and reunited with those who had betrayed them, but in their exile, the Ñoldor were united, and carried on.

Silwë received in those following days his first command and with it earned the title Cáno, or commander, for he was cunning as he was ruthless. No sign of the self he had been remained, but for the slightest hints buried so deeply even he could not reach them. He did not care; there was work to be done. And as the eldest son of Fëanáro abdicated his throne to his uncle, Nolofinwë - Fingolfin, in the language of Beleriand - became the High King of the Exiled Ñoldor, and withdrew south, to prepare. Sixty years after the first rising of the Sun over Beleriand, the accursed Enemy, Morgoth, launched an offensive. The Noldor were ready, and in what was known as the most glorious of battles, the Dagor Aglareb, his forces were crushed, and the Siege of Angband was set - the Ñoldor would hold the line of protection in the northern reaches of Beleriand, and for a time, all was well.

Now there was a time of peace, for the Ñoldor, and after some time, leave was given to those who wished to make a civilian life.

Silwë had no personal affinity for any of Feanor's sons over another (he rather felt they were all rather incompetent, though he'd not say so until far later in life), and chose ultimately to settle with Caranthir’s people in Thargelion. Wishing to reclaim some of the self he had discarded in Valinor, he set out on his own, deep into the wooded lands at the foot of the Ered Luin, near the river Ascar. He built by his own hands a lodge of stone and timber, and a forge nearby; here he dwelt and worked at his craft for four hundred years, in peace within the dense forests of Ossiriand.

He felt some sense of accomplishment and traded at times with the dwarves of nearby Nogrod, jewelry and weaponry for metals and gems, fine silks and clothing and wine. He was friendly with the Laiquendi - wood-elves, they were, skilled in song and hunting, and who dwelt in the depths of the woodland. It seemed a blessed time but was, from time to time, lonely, though he did not understand the meaning of this feeling. Not yet.

The depth of winter found rivers of flame and hatred pouring out of the north as Morgoth’s vast armies of orcs and Balrogs, led by the dragon Glaurung, destroyed all in their wake. Though he mustered his company in haste in Thargelion, it was no use; the Noldor were crushed, the survivors scattered. His company fled to Himlad, seeking refuge.


	4. Chapter 4

_Dictated by Cáno Silwë, Retired_   
_(recorded by... [smeared ink renders the scribe's name illegible])_   
_Recorded F.A. 457, Gondolin_

> I am Silwë of Gondolin, Commander Tactician in the service of the High King. This is an account of that which befell my company and myself following the disappearance.
> 
> ...it began when first we saw the siege was broken. Morgoth’s accursed forces had overrun Himlad, where we had fled. Chaos ruled then, and...

_(a note in Silwë's handwriting, added later: this time was later known as the Dagor Braigollach, the Battle of Sudden Flame) under which a great smear of black ink obscures a full half-page of text. Then, the account continues in the hand of the scribe.)_

> I led my small company into the dreadful wilds of Nan Dungortheb, the haunted valley south of the Ered Gorgoroth, seeking for refuge at Gondolin.
> 
> We were beset in the vale by a band of orcs, and I lost several of my kinsmen; the rest scattered. I continued alone, but the journey grew too dangerous, and my injuries hindered me. I thought to seek aid in Doriath, though I knew the Moriquendi who dwelt there to be distrustful of the Noldor. Near to the border, I prepared myself for the Halls of Mandos, but soon beheld a figure in the half-light — tall, and clad in elvish-made armor. One of my kinsmen had found me.
> 
> “Aiya! Á tulë!” ( _Hail! Come!_ ) I cried out in Quenya. "I am injured! It is Silwë!"
> 
> A pause — and then I heard a voice call out in Sindarin, a language I did not yet understand, and another answer. These were not my kinsmen – I had been discovered by a band of the Moriquendi, likely elves of Doriath seeking to hold their borders. The elf stepped from the shadows, sword drawn. He spoke to me in his unfamiliar tongue, and I did not understand.
> 
> “Lá istan quetë lambëtya” _(I do not speak your language)_ I tried to explain, again in my own tongue.
> 
> “What business have you in our lands, follower of accursed Fëanor?” he asked in slow Quenya, pronouncing these words as though they tasted bitter in his mouth.
> 
> “My kinsmen and I were beset by enemies. My company was scattered, and I have been injured. I seek aid in Doriath.
> 
> ”I know you. You were there, at the Havens. We know what your folk did. Morgoth can take you for all I care, when I am finished with you.” The elf regarded me. He was tall, though not as tall as I, and had the silvery hair typical of the Telerin elves. I saw only hate in his eyes. His kinsman joined him, and they conferred in their tongue for a time. I was taken captive and imprisoned. I was not to receive aid.
> 
> I spat at him the first time he struck me, and cursed him in Quenya. I will list here an account of his deeds, born of grief and hate. The scars upon my body and my fëa are permanent, and it must be known that…

_…Several pages are missing, torn roughly from the binding, and the scribe's handwriting resumes, shaky and uncertain. Tear-stains dot the page and blur a few of the characters…_

> ...and then, at last, I arrived in Gondolin. When I fell at the gate my kinsmen were frantic; for they thought I had perished. But I had arrived. Injured, weak, with my hair shorn and missing my hand. It had been far longer than it had seemed.
> 
> "Silwë, what happened?" someone eventually asked, days later, when I had recovered enough to leave my bed.
> 
> “I sought aid in Doriath," I said. "I asked only for aid…”
> 
> I returned to my quarters, closed the door, and wept. I am finished with this story, _meldonya._

_The dictation ends, and the journal contains little else but sketched scenes of Gondolin, torn-out pages, and intricate designs for what appears to be a articulated gauntlet to replace a severed hand._


End file.
